


Closing Time

by Blacklyra



Category: Assassin's Creed, Dragon Age II, Mass Effect, Prototype (Video Game), Uncharted
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Assassins, Bar Room Brawl, Barricades, Blooming Rose, Multi, Multiple Crossovers, One Shot Collection, Open to requests, Paragon Commander Shepard, Some are already planned out, Spying, The Hanged Man - Freeform, budding friendships, infected in the streets, it has to happen naturally, more tags to be added as necessary, references towards Legacy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-01-19 18:27:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1479607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blacklyra/pseuds/Blacklyra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Crossover AUs centered around the viewpoint of a bartender.</p><p>“To alcohol! The cause of... and solution to... all of life's problems”<br/>― Matt Groening</p><p>--Fourth story: spying is easier with drink and company</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Treasure hunters make a mess

  ****

**1\. "I hope you're planning on cleaning this shit up."**

* * *

 

Desmond had a feeling something big was going down with all the odd visitors they were getting in the V.I.P. room that night, lots of men in dark clothes going up to te privtate rooms one after another in a very professional attitude. They barely even bothered to stop to give the bartender their necessary identification, which instantly rubbed him the wrong way. He didn't give a shit if they were planning on throwing a crazy party, getting high as the Empire State building. Or fuck, that wasn't any of his business what the V.I.P. guests did as long as nobody died up there. The Pelican Inn wasn't too strict with the codes until possible fatalities were involved, then the problems started.

Desmond hadn't really expected to land a job in Britain of all places, but he'd been forced to go oversees after another one of his aliases was busted open and it turned out that the police in this country were a great deal easier to divert than back home.

He couldn't realistically get a hold of a passport, so Desmond settled for playing stowaway on an Atlantic-bound cruise ship that docked in Boston for a few days. He made a big profit off of the guests on the boat so that he had some resources when the ship finally docked at the French coast. That crowd was a definite no-go; Desmond didn't know a lick of French and no intention to learn it either. He caught another ship to Britain in the first opportunity and the job almost crashed into him after that.

The Pelican Inn was a popular joint, he learned, especially with boxing fans and patrons. The extra patronage meant Desmond got a better wage and a higher income meant more luxuries to go along with it.

Of course, all the boxing madness meant that there was the occasional downsides as well. Small brawls sometimes, nothing too problematic except that the instigators of the fights were somewhat more skilled than your typical drunken customers.

All things considered, it was a pretty sweet deal.

Tonight's customers were fairly low-key and mostly lucid, and Desmond wasn't expecting any significant problems from the upstairs rooms except for perhaps a lingering stench or an unpleasant stain he could be forced to scrub out later. However, everything changed when the two men walked in a little later.

One of them was older, with graying hair and a groomed mustache that fit in well with his black suit. The man looked to be somewhere around his father's age, if his old man by some miracle ever managed to acquire smile lines. Peh, unlikely. The other of the pair was a younger guy somewhere around Desmond's age with brown hair pushed back from his face and glinting eyes that may have concealed some kind of inner fire. Both of them were deadly serious, crossing immediately to the bar in a determined manner that showed that they weren't here to get drunk like everyone else.

"We're looking for a Mr. Talbot," The older guy said, and Desmond pointed to the upper floors, remembering that the upstairs guests were expecting company of some kind. Internally, he wondered whether showing them up was the smartest thing to do; for all the bartender knew, there was some kind of illegal drug deal going on in his establishment and fuck if he wanted to be involved with that. Desmond tried to put it out of his mind, serving up another whiskey to one of the few regulars that had showed up today; most of his customers tonight were unfamiliar actually.

He didn't have to wait long for shit to hit the fan either.

The shouts and clashing from upstairs gave it away immediately, and the bartender straightened up, only to reel back as the two latest guests came bowling out of the door. They were locked in combat with the men from the V.I.P. rooms, punching and kicking the crap out of each other so violently that it put his regular brawls to shame. Desmond was about to shout something to dissuade them, but had to quickly duck back as an unconscious body was hurled over the bar to crash into the floor behind him, destroying many of his painstakingly cleaned wineglasses.

"Motherfucking christ! What is wrong with you people?" His voice wasn't even heard over the sounds of crashing and violence. Then one man tried to climb over the bar for cover and Desmond wasn't having it; like hell someone was going to destroy more of his personal space. He spent too many days taking care of this stuff to have it ruined now. The bartender thought fast and brought down a bottle of Chardonnay on the intruder's head and knocked him out, "Not on my watch, you don't, asshole!"

This was insane and goddammit, Desmond usually tried to avoid calling the police to keep attention away from him. But if things escalated any more, he might not have a choice in the matter.

Thankfully, the two men from before seemed to be handling themselves pretty well, preventing the fight from getting too drawn out. Desmond might not have to call the cops now, but that would mean the payment for the broken glasses would come out of his pay. He was just glad responsibility for the broken pool table and chairs wasn't his to shoulder as well.

Eventually, the situation calmed down indoors as the apparent instigators left through a side door, leaving Desmond with a pile of knocked out customers who owed him a fuckton in damages. The considerably angry bartender had started to filch money from their wallets-more out of petty spite on them than need-until the sound of two gunshots had him jolting up. First brawls, damages, and now guns? This whole day was going straight to hell in no time at all. Desmond was debating with himself on whether or not to go outside and check to see what was going on when three figures walked back into the bar. None other than the two instigators and the men who one of them was fighting with earlier.

Most catching of all was the bullet holes in the chests of the original pair, and Desmond caught a glimpse of what could have been bulletproof vests under the suits. All three of them were laughing like long-time companions and he bcame even more frustrated to see it.

"Oh, if only our reporter could see this..."

"You kidding, Sully? She'd beat the crap out of me!"

"This 'reporter' of yours isn't the only one who'd beat the crap out you," The strangers spun around to find Desmond glaring at them with his arms crossed, standing in the middle of the trashed Pelican Inn. "So which one of you had this idea, huh? I hope you're planning on cleaning this shit up. Give me one good reason not to phone the police on your asses right now."

The three men exchanged a few glances between them, and Desmond could've sworn he heard the older guy (didn't they say his name was Sully?) utter something that sounded like, "Holy hell, Nate, he sounds just like you." A moment of silence passed and the bartender found himself staring at their ruffled black suits; what was the point of that anyway when they got ruined in the end?

The man who had been called Sully elbowed his younger friend impatiently, "C'mon Nate, I'm too tired to deal with the cops today."

"Fine, fine, but I can't do this again," The brown-haired guy marched up and drew a small pouch from his pocket and handed it over to Desmond, who emptied it out with widened eyes. It was some kind of figurine of a dog or cat that was made entirely out of gold, he couldn't clearly tell what kind of animal it was because the style of the creator was unfamiliar to him. The figure was decorated with small gems which had to be a combination of emeralds and rubies (though the odd coloration made it difficult to tell if they were rubies or garnets), and he could only begin to guest how valuable it actually was.

"My god, is this even real?" Desmond handled the artifact with care, worried that the slightest faulty movement could have the treasure shattering into hundreds of pieces.

"You bet that's real. Well, you think it covers our tab?"

Desmond went silent and slid the treasure into his pocket, wetting his dry lips, "Drinks are on me, guys."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Desmond would totally accept bribes on the job.  
> \---  
> I'm hoping to do lots more of these. Some of them I've already planned out, but give me a good idea and I'll swing with it.  
> No idea how many chapters.


	2. "I can't handle any more excitment for today."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Infected roam the streets

**2\. "I can't handle any more excitment for today."**

* * *

 

All Desmond wanted was just a fairly quiet, easy job and it was just his luck that everything inevitably had to spiral out of control. Really, with the constant strings of twists and turns his life went through, sometimes he wondered why he had expected any differently. One day he was just your average bartender keeping his head out of trouble and getting people sufficiently wasted, and the next he was forced to do shit like barricading himself inside his own bar.

Funny story; no not funny at all actually, sad was the better word to describe it actually.

Desmond knew he should've been paying attention to the news (when the sub-par radio he possessed had the common decency to pick up a signal at least), but he never really cared too much about society and trends, and tended to tune everything out. That tendency was beginning to work against him now, because if the man had been following the nightly broadcasts, he would have been forewarned about the district that were now at risk for infection. Now the bartender was trapped there, knowing that if he dared to remove his barricades and try to run for safety, he'd be killed by infected or caught in the war zone crossfire long before he ever reached the safe zone.

Although Desmond wasn't the only one who had apparently missed the very important memo, because about a dozen citizens were stuck in there with him, five of which were familiar regulars of his. He'd spent the better part of the last six hours caught between consoling them and restraining them from getting into the liquor without his permission. Apocalyptic nature of their situation aside, the man was less that pleased with the idea of letting his uninvited guests drink for free, especially if he ever managed to get out of this mess alive.

"It's the end of the world!" One of the men in the corner cried out, holding a bottle of gin he'd somehow managed to pilfer before Desmond could stop him. He mumbled incoherently and started mumbling prayer under his breath so rapidly that the words started to meld together. The bartender took the opportunity to snatch the alcohol from his hands before the man could start gulping it down.

"Get a hold of yourself! It's just Manhattan for Chrissakes! Besides, sooner or later the military going to mow those bastards down, so just be patient okay?" Desmond fumed with more confidence than he actually felt, pacing over to the windows to peer between the wooden boards barring the glass. The streets were still packed with infected walkers, and the man began to wonder if they would be forced to start rationing any time soon (if that is, his 'customers' didn't drink everything in their wild panicking and leave him with nothing), as their supplies of food wouldn't last too much longer, though no shortage of drinks. Unless Desmond was willing to kick out his refugees (which he wasn't, yet), things would only get worse for them from here on out.

Sighing, the bartender pulled back from the unappealing view and went into the backroom to check on the rest of his guests, only to stop cold in his tracks. He knew it had been a bad idea to leave these ones unattended, but they wouldn't all stay in one room where Desmond could keep an eye on them all.

His regulars had also gotten a hold of the booze, albeit in higher quantity than his doom-bringer friend lounging around in the other room, and had proceeded to get completely drunk. Not only that, but apparently they had decided to go ahead and have some fun in the meantime, probably suspecting to be dead in a day or so. The man resisted the rising urge to throw them all out on the streets to fend for themselves; Desmond already had too much on his plate, he didn't need the added stress of having to break up a fucking orgy on top of it all. Sure the man liked paries too sometimes, but pus-spewing abominations roaming Manhattan was not his ideal time for romance or...this.

There was a time and place for this, and it wasn't here or now. Now this room was going to smell very unpleasant for a long time if Desmond actually made it through this madness. This was just gross.

"Really guys? Put some fucking clothes on, this is just embarrassing for everybody," The bartender stepped back, intending to go find a blanket to throw over them so he wouldn't have to see them.

 _Oh God, he really didn't need to see that._ _He can't unsee that._

"Oh...c'mon..." One of the girls stepped over to him, pulling at the man's arm insistently, "Let's have some fun while we still can. I don't want to die alone..." She attempted a tone of voice that may have been supposed to be seductive, but the effect was completely ruined by her words slurring together.

Desmond flushed and yanked his arm back, turning on his heel to leave the room and slammed the door behind him. Forget it, let them drink themselves into a coma, he didn't even care anymore. "The calvary needs to hurry up or I might actually start to believe we are going to die here..." The bartender slumped down on a discarded milk crate and started to massage his temple where a headache was building up.

There was the soft patter of footsteps and Desmond looked up to see a young woman somewhere around his age standing there, looking anything but panicked and crossing her arms as though this whole episode was just one big hassle to her. He had felt the same way until recently, when someone thought it would be a good idea to start raiding his stock for their own amusement. "Hey, I wouldn't worry about rescue. I already called for help, took ages to get a damn signal though," She raised a cellular phone in the air and Desmond couldn't help but just gape at her in amazement.

"Are you related to the fucking military?"

"Nope, just a one-man army," She gave him a shit-eating grin and suddenly the man swore he'd seen her somewhere before, or that she bore a startling resemblance to someone he knew. Before he contemplate it however, he became aware of a sound outside, like blood splatter and a practical symphony of loud cracks like broken bones. The woman frowned at the door and sat down patiently across from Desmond on one of the unbroken bar stools, "He's so loud, isn't he?"

Minutes later, there was an earthshaking explosion and the sounds from outside immediately stopped, giving way to an uncomfortable silence. He was about to go look through the windows to see what exactly had happened, but the young woman pulled him back abruptly. Before he could ask why, the entire door was violently ripped off its hinges, barricades and all, revealing a man in a heavy, black jacket and a veritable sea of dead infected bodies lying prone behind him.

"Faster than I expected, Alex," She said, smiling again as though he hadn't just performed a superhuman feat. And with those words, everything just clicked together. Where the man had seen that face before, why she seemed so familiar. _BLACKWATCH. Alex. Mercer. FUCK._ Unless everything about this man Desmond had heard about was a pile of bullshit, he was dead, so fucking dead. The man immediately fell into the deadly calm he experienced only when he was the most terrified, waiting to see what horrible thing would happen when he was noticed. It wasn't like he could run anyway.

"Are you alright, Dana? You weren't hurt or anything, right?" His voice was surprizingly gentle towards her, though with siblings, he supposed that would be expected. No, nothing was _expected_ with this guy; Desmond had no idea how he would act. "You left the safehouse without telling me..."

"I'm fine! Besides, I had good company," She jerked a thumb at Desmond and he had to resist the knee-jerk reaction glare at her. _Don't point him at me!_ But, it was too late, the man's cold gaze was on him.

"You looked after my sister?" The reply was just a uncertain nod, "Thanks...er..."

"Desmond. My name's Desmond."

"Right, Desmond. I owe you one," Alex said, stunning the man into silence with just a few words. _Owed him?_ Well granted, he did seem to care about his sister, but still... "C'mon Dana, let's get out of here."

"I'm coming, I'm coming! Hey Desmond, the next time I visit, I want some of that special booze on the house okay? And none of that fruity shit either!" The bartender nodded weakly after her, still in too much shock to think up a decent reply after all that had just happened, watching them leave as he sank bonelessly back down onto his milk carton. In another moment they were gone, vanished as though never having been in the bar in the first place. And he could almost believe that too.

What a day. "That favor can wait another day, Mercer. I can't handle any more excitement for today," Desmond mustered a pained wince, got to his feet, and kicked out his guests.


	3. "Nice to see you again too."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bartender only has a half-empty thermal clip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually really like this one. I could even make a full-length fic out of it if I had the inclination. Lots of ideas.

**3\. "Nice to see you again too."**

Omega was Desmond's kind of colony. 

Madness, parties, massive crowds, and best of all, he vanished into the chaos as though he belonged there. Forgeries were as common as flies, and if the guards had seen through his fake passport, they sure as hell didn't act like they even cared about it either way. There were just a few people on this giant hunk of rock who didn't hide some kind of skeletons in their closet, and the small percentage who were 'innocent' to shady pasts and deals were quickly cheated or taken advantage of. It was a grand haven for all manner of criminals and only Aria T'Loak kept her hold over the eternal chaos.

Humans were not given a very high opinion on Omega, but the constant danger kept Desmond on his toes, and the echoes of his training served well on the instances where someone tried to mug him in the night. The streets were threatening but ultimately impossible to avoid, so the skills that normally would have gone dull with disuse were sharpened every day and he made the point to get ahold of a decent sidearm as soon as he could steal enough to afford it. But he needed an actual job, so Desmond worked the crowd, using an equal mixture of lies and abilities to get himself the last open spot in the Afterlife club as a bartender. And it was with that position that he found his path changed forever.

It started with the plague in the lower districts, wiping out a large number of batarians and turians, while leaving the human citizens strangely unaffected. Desmond dealt with more than his share of insults from nasty customers over the days until the disease was cured by a salarian scientist named Mordin. Everything would have been fine if the problems had just ended there, but the mercenary bands had their hands full running around trying to off some vigilante people had taken to calling Archangel. The fight he waged was impressive, but Desmond didn't see how anyone, not even a seasoned sniper, could possibly be able to clean up Omega. When the fights finally settled down, the Blue Suns sent around messages claiming to have killed Archangel, but the bartender knew better than that, because saw both the vigilante himself and his rescuer in person soon after.

He had tried to put his past behind him, abandon the old teachings and hide away from those who would pursue him, but he should have known it would never be that easy to disappear forever.

Would that he could just live in Afterlife, because Desmond knew that Aria was unlikely to let trouble come stomping in the front door without her permission. But the man had his own housing and the back to it after hours was always a cause for concern because of the muggers and anti-human sentiment, but he never expected to run into anything major.

That was until his path was blocked by a small group of armed individuals dressed all in black, not belonging to any of the three major mercenary groups on Omega. Desmond instantly started pacing backwards the moment he saw them, one hand snaking behind his back for his Phalanx sidearm, but had to move quickly when the men sprang into action without even a word of warning. It was clear they weren't after his money, the high quality of their equipment and lack of demands for credits made it more than obvious that they weren't aiming so low. The bartender had downed a couple of human members of the party with a few well-placed shots before he had to resort to dodging away as a turian and salarian opened fire in retaliation, aiming low like they were trying to knock him off his feet.

Desmond ducked behind a corner, only to realize that the unknown group had boxed him into a dead end with no opportunity of making a run for it. "Shit, who the hell are these guys?"He muttered angrily and checked the thermal clip of his gun and was sorely disappointed to find that he had little more than a half-empty clip. Hardly enough to take care of these pursuers, but that was also assuming of course that every hit was a perfect shot, and Desmond wasn't willing to risk it. "There's got to be another way..." He glanced up to see a network of piping stretching above his head that wasn't actually too far away. With that, it may be possible to move along the ceiling to get up close and personal with these guys, though it was probably too rickety to be a quiet approach. As skilled with a gun as he could get, Desmond's speciality was in close-quarters combat and he was intending on using it.

With some small effort of climbing, Desmond worked his way onto the pipes, which gave a dangerous-sounding creaking noise in response. "Gotta make this quick," He said to himself and broke into a sudden run, bolting in the direction of his pursuers and drawing his gun at the same time. By the time they realized what was going on, it was too late to react, which two shots fired downward into the skulls of two enemies, Desmond followed the shots by leaping down from the pipes onto the shoulders of a man who collapsed under his momentum. Two more were taken out by their own rifles when the supposed bartender twisted the barrels around in the opening of their surprise and had the men pulling the trigger to blow out their own brains. Another he had to stab with a bayonet he kept on hand in the event of muggers and an empty thermal clip and the last he shot down with the Phalanx before the man could recover from his unexpected tumble to the ground.

Desmond exhaled slowly and put away his weapon, pleased that he was still in one piece but confused as to why he was being attacked in such numbers. Did an upset customer order a hit on him?

He was about to relax and try to go home and sleep it off when an out of place click from behind stopped him in his tracks. Desmond turned his head ever so slightly to see a pistol pointed at his back, held by a man that he recognized all too well, "That's enough running around I think. My employer doesn't want you dead, but you know you're going to be thoroughly punished for my soldiers' deaths."

The bartender raised his hands slightly, and the old bitterness started to fester inside him again. The very last thing he needed to deal with right now was Daniel Cross. Just when he thought he'd escaped his old life for good, it came back with a vengeance to haunt him, "Nice to see you again too, Cross. Just how long has it been since I gave you the slip?"

"Three years," The two words were uttered through a clenched jaw and Desmond didn't need to see the man's face to know he was grinding his teeth in rage. "And you are lucky you're still wanted alive, Miles. If I had my way, you'd be dead and gone, but I can least fuck you up for all the trouble you've caused me." In his peripheral vision, the man saw the gun abruptly dip downward and he tensed up. Cross was intending on blowing a hole in his knees, which would make escaping pretty goddamn impossible, but if he timed it just perfectly and dodged out of the way... The ringing through the air jarred both of them as an unknown third party fired a shot upward that had Daniel jumping back and Desmond spinning around and securing some distance between them. The man brought up his weapon again to threaten whoever it was that had interfered before seeing whoever it was who had stepped into the fray, "Goddammit! This is the last lucky break you'll get, Miles!" The bartender didn't get a chance to reply back as Cross bolted, disappearing into the shadows again.

"You unharmed?" Desmond turned around at the question and found himself staring down one of the most famous military women in the galaxy right now: Commander Shepard. He'd caught occasional passing glimpses and paid enough attention to the news to recognize her, and honestly wasn't sure whether to greet her politely or start running.

"Y-yeah, I'm fine! Not a scratch on me," He kind of hoped that would be the end of it, but no such thing came through for him when he noticed the other figure at the commander's side. It was Archangel, no doubt about it, and he now sported an impressive set of scars across the right side of his face. What the hell had that come from? A rocket?

"I'm not surprised. From what we saw earlier, you know how to handle yourself in a fight." The turian exchanged some kind of meaningful nod with the commander, which Desmond didn't know what to make of. "Why were those men after you?"

"Look, everyone on Omega has a skeleton or two in their closet, okay? One of mine is that guy who just ran off in a hurry. Daniel Cross. A bounty hunter working on a private contract, involving lots of killing and kidnapping. I got away from him three years ago, but I guess I need to find a new colony now," He shook his head, giving a long look to the path that his hunter had taken into the darkness. He was really starting to enjoy the club too. "I appreciate what you did, but I need to start packing to leave," The two nodded, but didn't budge. "What?"

The woman stepped forward, flickering lights casting a brighter illumination on her reddish hair, and Desmond immediately felt uncomfortable. She was simultaneously intimidating and attractive, both dangerous and charismatic, and it was easy to see why she was respected so much. "If you're worried about a job, we may be able help you out in that regard."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm Commander Shepard of the Normandy, and this is Garrus Vakarian. We are currently undertaking an important mission and have a need for skilled individuals," Shepard's voice was sharp, military and the man balked at the idea.

He held up his hands and gave a nervous smile, "Look, I don't know who you think I am. I'm no fighter, er...Commander. I'm just a bartender!"

Garrus kicked at one of the black-clad corpses lying on the ground and snorted, "Right. An ordinary bartender who can single handedly take out over half a dozen heavily armed men with no backup."

"Did I say you needed to fight?" Shepard cut in and Desmond just froze.

"What do you mean? Just a second ago, you were..."

Without even missing a beat, the woman continued, crossing her arms and looking even more commanding than a moment before. "I'm not going to force you to fight if you don't believe in our mission. However, it just so happens that we have a job opening for a bartender on the Normandy. It will likely be a safer post than the one you've been used to here, and bounty hunters won't be able to pursue you. How does that sound? We'll even pay you."

Desmond stared at her, wanting to say something but unable to get the words out. It took him a few second, but he cleared his throat and spoke up, "You're a really difficult person to argue with, Commander."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yeah... Let's just hope I don't end up regretting this later."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, remember how the Normandy actually does have a bar in it?  
> That's where this idea came from.


	4. "I've heard otherwise"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> spying is easier with drink and company

**4\. "I've heard otherwise."**

* * *

 

If there was anything positive about working in a red light district establishment, it was the fact that it was easy enough to be on the receiving end of a decent amount of flirtations, even if those people weren't your type. The Blooming Rose was always a booked whore house and they were doing a fine job of raking in the cash in droves, but with the Carta backing operations, Desmond wasn't exactly surprised. At least the customers had the decency to kept their pants on outside the bedchambers.

He hadn't been sure at first if his position would be useful there, and blatantly refused to be party to what made the Blooming Rose famous; he still had some of his pride after all. Luckily, people made a point of enjoying their drinking as well as sex, and Desmond knew how to handle alcohol. And on the plus side, no one usually expected the bartender to be capable of killing.

Murder, well...Desmond knew that trade in spades; its what he was raised for after all, even if he'd definitely be much happier not knowing. Thankfully, his father didn't want him involved in most assignments, which left recon and the spying he was doing now.

Kirkwall was drawing the gazes of other territories, and not just within the Free Marches either, and someone had to keep and eye on any important developments. There were several agents throughout the city, most of which were doing their best not to draw any untoward attention to themselves and it was one of these senior members who had proposed the idea of staking out the Blooming Rose. It was a predominantly non-action job and the establishment was incredibly popular with all levels of society, including that of the Templars. They were Desmond's primarily target for information.

The group he was born into worked in complete secrecy, occasionally cooperating with Antivan Crows when their intentions intersected, but were unable to receive official support. They called themselves the Brotherhood, a name that was never expanded upon to increase their enigmatic nature, and hid themselves from a world that would place them in danger. For though they were trained as assassins, many in the Brotherhood were also mages, adapting their magic in unusual ways to suit their needs in subtlety. Mages made their abilities more powerful by channeling them through staves, but this group didn't require flashy explosions and most specialize with small weapons like daggers and maces.

The Brotherhood had suffered the ire of the Templars and made a point to steer clear of any unnecessary conflicts with them. There was no need to engage in all-out war. For all the cruelty that could be inflicted upon a mage, Desmond knew full well that some of them deserved the treatment.

As 'necessary' as it all was though, Kirkwall's Templars had a way of pushing his tolerance.

Thankfully, he did learn some things of note, which were sent along the chain of command to reach his father and let the others know what was happening in Kirkwall. Sometimes he'd get a return message as well for all his trouble. "Keep working," if the note was from his father and "You're doing a great job" from Lucy, who was just about the greatest motivating factor for him. Only once in a blue moon did Desmond get a visit in person, though he could have asked for pretty much anyone else to check in.

There was a man walking towards the bar, dressed in expensive yet elegant dark leatherwork trimmed in crimson, and outfit that most people in Kirkwall couldn't afford on half a year's paycheck. He was about thirty years old to Desmond's twenty-five, with a face women were unfortunately drawn to and long hair tied back with a strand of black ribbon. He knew without searching that there was a curved dagger hidden under the tails of the man's jacket and his charming smile hid the skills of a deadly killer. Desmond straightened up as he approached, lowering his voice so that the rabble in nearby wouldn't be able to hear him, "Ezio. Came to check up on me, did you?"

"Not just that, Desmond. We got a lead on a new assignment for you. Another stakeout, but closer to one of our priority targets," Ezio cast a lazy gaze around the Rose, his eyes hesitating now and again on the women dressed in short dresses and low-cut shirts. The bartender watched him carefully with a blank gaze and mentally dared him to try something here. Desmond thought the man's head swelled a little bit too much for his own good, and charismatic or not, the services of the Rose weren't free.

"Someone we need to get rid of?"

"No, not at all. He might end up being an ally sooner or later too. He's a dwarf, member of the merchant's guild with an impressive array of contacts and a widespread information network. Name's Varric Tethras," The older man sighed and ordered a drink to divert attention, scratching at the stubble on his face thoughtfully. "The boss wants you to keep an eye on him for a while. If any important news comes through Kirkwall, this dwarf will probably be one of the first to hear about it."

Desmond frowned and shook his head slowly, "I thought we didn't work with dwarven guilds. 'Too much politics' or something like that."

"Usually yeah, but this guy seems to an exception to the usual rule. Interesting guy, has a way with stories too. I think maybe you'll enjoy this job," Ezio paused, casting a glance about with a devious look on his face that the other man had learned to be wary of. "So, on the topic of the Rose, how did it turn out with that lovely lady I referred to you?"

Desmond replied with a flat stare intense enough to get the other to avert his eyes, "She was a man."

Ezio was flat-out shocked; obviously he hadn't known, "What? You're serious? I could've sworn..."

"Ezio, this is the Blooming Rose. Don't recommend someone to me from a whorehouse, especially if you incorrectly guess what gender they are," He left the older Assassin gaping like a fish while he tried to rectify his mistake. For all his accumulated charisma, Ezio Auditore, who made friends easily and amassed a great deal of followers, still had no idea how to handle a cynic like Desmond who shot holes through his charm with sarcasm. They were friends undoubtedly, but the bartender would never stop messing with his head; the other man was just too fun to mislead. At least it wasn't Altaïr who had come to check up on him. The last thing he needed was that arrogant stick in the mud around. "So this guy I'm supposed to be watching, Varric, right? I've heard the name a few times, but I don't think I served him before."

Ezio seemed to have recovered from Desmond's blow to his pride at the mention of the mission and straightened up, "Yeah, Tethras rented out room and board at the Hanged Man, and since I don't see him leaving, it's fair to say he practically lives there. And I wouldn't be surprised for you to hear about him. He's a friend of the newest winner of our popularity poll, Hawke."

"Hawke... Word has been going around. After he came back from that Deep Roads expedition, the name has been on the tongues of a lot of nobles and Templars around here lately. So does that mean you think he'll shake something up?"

"No idea, but observing Hawke directly is too risky. After the Carta attacked his family, chances of detection really spiked. Which is why we're targeting Tethras instead, along with his useful information network. The organization will get two birds with one stone this way."

Desmond didn't think it would be nearly that simple, after all, the Templars were watching Hawke as well. If they started to think the mage noble was dangerous regardless of his good deeds, well...the Brotherhood might be forced to step in. "Okay, fine, so what do you want me to do?"

"We'll get you a replacement here, then secure a job at the Hanged Man," Ezio was casually as ever, not considering how dangerous this would be to just about any other organization. Desmond had his doubts about the man's confidence but he would rather work at an ordinary bar than a brothel, and didn't offer any real objections to the transfer order.

The Hanged Man was fun, to say the least. It was filthy, dirty, and he wasn't bugged as much he was at the Blooming Rose. Well, there was that pirate woman who often hung around the bar, often drinking with a tolerance that any man should envy and subtly implying she recognized him from the Rose, while Desmond pretended not to hear. But when he wasn't restraining himself from staring down her open shirt (because despite her seductive attitude, Isabela was a dangerous woman and everyone there knew it), he often saw Varric Tethras coming and going with none other than Hawke himself. And within a few days, in spite the inconvenience of it all, he had to admit that being moved to the Hanged Man was a good idea; he got so much more useful intel there than at the Blooming Rose. Naturally, any place that was regularly frequented by Hawke and his companions was bound to be a gold mine.

Of course, sooner or later someone had to notice him.

"Hey Rivaini, how come the beer hasn't tasted like piss water in a while?" Varric was shifting a pint back and forth between his gloved fingers, his well-polished crossbow gleaming faintly on his back.

"Why don't you ask the new guy?" Isabela points at him with a smile that makes him tense up and he's not quite sure if he can keep pretending they don't exist, which is the usual tactic when both of the rogues were in the same place. "I don't think he's very comfortable around me."

The dwarf cast a glance between them with the beginnings of a smirk on his face and leaned forward across the bar, "Hey, ease up buddy. Rivaini doesn't bite."

"I've heard otherwise," The words are out of Desmond's mouth before he can stop them, and spends one worried moment thinking that his cover is compromised. Suddenly, Isabela is erupting into laughter, slapping the counter with an open palm while Varric is chuckling and the tense atmosphere disappeared as though it had never existed. Emboldened, he filled up a new pair of drinks for the both of them, "Here, for laughing at my stupid jokes. On the house. Just don't tell my boss."

"Not bad," The dwarf gave his drink an appraising look before returning his gaze to the bartender, "Just what is your name anyway?"

"Desmond, that's me, the new guy. And I've heard your names around before. Varric and Isabela, right?"

Isabela nodded a confirmation and grabbed her mug quickly, downing a third of the drink in record speed, "Mmm, it's good. I could get used to this..." She gave him a sideways glance that would not fail to appear seductive no matter what she was saying, "Keep making drinks like that and I'll have to pay you back eventually." Desmond laughs it off nervously, because he's not sure if the pirate is messing around with him or is actually serious, and he can't take that kind of temptation right now.

He feels better when the conversation turns to news and stories, with Varric's cunning grin (which definitely is nothing at all the casual thing Ezio wears) lighting up and he says, "Have you ever heard the story of how Hawke retrieved my family signet ring from the belly of a dragon?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love all the Dragon Age rogues, I really do.


End file.
